“Your Grace,” he said stoutly. “I regret that I could not deliver you here sooner...”
His apology was gruffly interrupted. “You have my thanks, captain. You’ve done well, sir. The admiralty shall hear of it.”
The officer’s anxiety dissolved into elation. Perhaps it was not merely a flight of fancy to imagine being made post captain—he caught himself and put aside such dreams until later as he caught the last of the Duke’s words.
“... ashore immediately.”
Fortunately, he had expected no less. A longboat was already being lowered, eight muscled sailors ready to take the oars. The ladder was lowered and with a minimum of ceremony—no pipes, no officers lined in salute—the two passengers were helped down the steep, pitching side into the small craft. It fairly flew towards shore, propelled by bosun’s stentorious command and the promise of an extra ration of rum for all hands on making land in record time.
The duke breathed a sigh of relief on setting foot on English soil. He took Lucien’s arm and hurried awkwardly across the dock, legs still rolling with the gait of the sea.
“Not much longer now,” he muttered as his eyes swept the cobbled streets.
The sky was just beginning to lighten with glow of dawn and the wharves were nearly deserted, save for a few drays unloading coils of hemp and barrel of tar in front of a row of warehouses. The Duke grabbed at the closest driver and barked a demand to be taken to the coaching inn. The man regarded the elegant figure as if he had just emerged from Bedlam until he heard the heavy chink of the purse thrust under his nose. With a grunt, he heaved the last of his load onto the street and motioned for the two figures to climb into the back of his vehicle. The crack of a whip sprung the draft horses, which amounted to little more than a plodding trot.
The smell of coffee seemed ambrosial to Lucien as he slid into a chair and took a sip of the steaming brew. The main room of the inn was already filling with people despite the early hour. Several men, gentlemen by their looks, conversed together in low murmurs at a table in the corner while a fat farmer and his wife next to them put the last knots in several bulging sacks. An elderly curate was already nursing a tankard of ale while other passengers for the mail coach simply sat in sleepy silence, eyes not venturing up from the ill swept floor.
Outside, the ostlers were hitching a fresh team to a sleek phaeton painted a garish black and yellow, all the while coming under a steady stream of invectives from a foppishly dressed young man. Lucien watched the argument escalate as he took another sip. Finally, the gentleman seemed resigned that his heated words were having no effect on the men save to elicit a veiled sneer or two. With a hitch of his caped driving coat, he mounted his vehicle with as much dignity as possible and cracked the whip.
The young viscount was not the only spectator to the scene. From the corner of his eye, he noticed two men standing by the far end of the stables watching the scene. They were rather disheveled, their hats pulled down low, collars turned up against the bite of the morning air. The taller one bent to converse with his companion, then drew him back farther into the shadows. Lucien shrugged as he turned his attention back to his coffee. Laborers heading to London for work, he thought. Or two seamen tired of a brutally harsh life. In any case, it was no concern of his.
The Duke sat down beside his nephew and took the proffered cup, a look of grim satisfaction on his weathered face. “It took a little persuasion, but we have two carriages, with two teams of decent horses.”
Lucien smiled faintly as he wondered how many guineas had changed hands and how many disgruntled people would be cooling their heels until later. Not that the cost mattered. Not that anything mattered, save for finding Caroline.
“I shall go directly to London,” continued his uncle. “You are to drive with all speed to Roxbury Manor. Let us hope between the two of us, we shall find her...unharmed.”
A sharp blast of a horn announced the arrival of the mail coach bound for London. A number of people rose and hurried into the courtyard, knowing full well that any dawdling would result in being left behind. The Duke paid no little heed to the commotion. “Best finish your coffee quickly,” he advised. “As soon as the mail has departed, the ostlers will have us off in a trice.”
Lucien set down his cup and both men scraped their chairs back, taking no note of the two slightly disreputable figures that climbed aboard the lumbering coach along with the rest of the passengers.
* * * *
Davenport muttered a curse under his breath. “I had engaged a private conveyance and a fast team, then the damn fellow suddenly informed me that an important personage had precedence over my request.” He pulled a face. “Unfortunately, neither my person or my purse could argue with him. We have no choice but the mail coach.”
Caroline avoided looking at him. “I’m sure it will make little difference, my lord. And perhaps it is even better this way. I should imagine the chances of being noticed are slimmer if we remain in a crowd.”
He merely grunted, but she noticed that his hand rarely left the pocket containing the pistol. The earl was certainly keeping his guard up, she thought glumly, and not least ways against her. As the heavy coach rumbled into the courtyard, he urged her forward.
“For God’s sake, keep your hat pulled down and pray, don’t utter even a word during the trip,” he whispered as they pushed towards the cluster of people waiting to squeeze into the dark interior.
There was little danger of that. It seemed they had had precious little to say to each other since leaving the shelter of the stable.
She found herself wedged in between a country squire reeking heavily of scent and a merchant clutching a small parcel to his chest, as if he feared highwaymen would accost them at any moment. The earl took a seat directly opposite her, promptly dropped his head to his chest and began to snore.
Caroline closed her eyes as well, but she knew for her sleep would be nigh impossible.
Drat the man!
Did he have windmills in his head? How could he imagine she didn’t trust him, or thought of him as some sort of lackey? That wasn’t it at all. As she reflected on what, exactly, had kept her silent, honesty compelled her to admit it was fear. She had come to value the feisty camaraderie that had developed between them, with none of the artificial constraints of Society coloring their actions—why, she even found she liked his curses and his irritable moods. She liked it that he passed her a bottle of brandy, that he told her she looked a fright. He treated her like a real person, not some porcelain doll devoid of brains or bottom. All because he thought her a lady of no consequence.
She was loath to give it up. Only Lucien had ever treated her like that, but this was different. How, she could not explain, even to herself. But once he knew the truth of who she was, that bond was likely to prove as chimerical as the lightness in his eyes. Of course he would find out soon enough, but, like a child clinging to the last shreds of a cherished blanket, she would cling to what they had as long as she could.
There was another matter, too. She swallowed hard as a different sort of fear crept up upon her consciousness. She had learned he was a man of honor. What if he felt compelled to offer for her when he learned of her rank? There could be no question as to whether their intimacies had thoroughly compromised her. Especially after...last night. The very thought of what had taken place brought on a rush of color and she needed no admonition from the earl to keep her face buried in the folds of her jacket.
Ruined.
Funny, but she did not feel ruined in the least. Or sorry.
In her mind there was nothing shameful in what had happened—the blush rose more from the realization that, in fact, she wanted very much for him to carry out his promise to take her to bed. Perhaps her cousin was right in pronouncing her a hopeless hoyden. She had always rebelled against the rules, and this was no exception, though again, she could not begin to put into words why her actions were not beyond the pale. It certainly wasn’t that she was no better than she sh
ould be. Never had she dreamed of allowing a gentleman such liberties with her person, but things had happened in such a way that it was almost as if with his intimacies, the earl had been giving a part of himself rather than taking something from her.
But what was the earl thinking?
He had been undeniably angry on learning she was an innocent. Thankfully, discussion along those lines had been deflected by the concerns of their current situation but she had no allusions that the matter had been laid to rest. The flicker of emotion in his eyes told her that, more eloquently than any words. If she were a mere nobody, it might be easier to convince him he had no obligation. As a duke’s daughter, the matter was infinitely more complicated.
Suddenly, her throat tightened. Did he think her truly sunk in the mud for allowing his caresses? Or worse, had he taken a disgust to her? Perhaps his haunted look had stemmed from the fact that he felt hopelessly trapped between his sense of honor and the thought of being leg shackled to such a wanton and willful wife for the rest of his life. After all, he had made no secret as to his opinion of her behavior.
No, she was hardly the sort of lady a gentleman—even one with the sort of reputation as the Earl of Davenport—would wish to offer for.
Her eyes closed, more to cover the sting of tears than with any real hope that sleep would bring a welcome respite from such disquieting thoughts.
* * * *
“Open your peepers, lad.” A boot jostled against hers. “Let us climb down and stretch our legs while they change the horses.”
Had she really nodded off?
Davenport jerked his head towards the door, impatient to quit the closeness of the crowded coach. Still groggy with sleep, Caroline hauled herself up and stumbled down the steps. Had it not been for the earl’s steadying hand, her wobbly legs might have failed to keep her upright.
“Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice as he guided her to the far end of the yard. “You look bloody awful.”
She turned to regard the tangled locks straggling out from beneath his misshapen hat, the unshaven cheeks, one of which was beginning to take on a mottled purpling under the scruff, and the general state of disarray of the rest of his shabby clothes.
“You are not exactly looking like a pink of the ton yourself,” she snapped. “As to the question of whether I am all right, given the fact that I haven’t had a decent meal in lord knows when— not to speak of clean sheets or a bath—and that I am traveling with someone who would as soon bite my head off at every turn than not, I am no worse than should be expected.”
Davenport let his grasp fall away. He had the grace to look slightly discomfited as he dropped his gaze to the muddy tips of his boots. “If you will wait here, I will see if I can scrape up something decent to eat inside, though the odds look grim.”
He returned with a wedge of dry cheddar, a crust of bread and an apple whose skin was as shriveled as an old granny’s. Caroline’s eyes flew past the meager offerings to drink in the steaming mug of tea he held cradled against his chest. Without a word, he passed it to her. She let the heat seep into her chilled, chafed hands for a moment before raising it to her lips.
“Is that bad?” he asked abruptly.
She stopped in mid-swallow, confused. “What?”
“My, er, disposition. Do I cut up at you as terribly as you say?”
She pressed the mug up to her cheek, still reveling in its comforting warmth. “Oh, that. I don’t mind,” she said softly. “I’ve gotten rather used to it.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched and he looked as if to say something else when the rush of people elbowing their way back into the coach indicated that it was nearly ready to leave. The earl jammed his hands into his pockets and kicked at an errant pebble.
“We better make haste,” he muttered. “It wouldn’t do to be left behind at this stage.”
The ostlers were already buckling the last bits of harness, and as they hurried towards the waiting vehicle to regain their places, neither of them noticed a lone rider set off at a gallop towards London.
* * * *
Davenport restrained the urge to reach out and tuck an errant lock of hair back under the ridiculous man’s cap that obscured most of her face. Enough of it was visible to show that the guarded expression she had worn since morning had softened in repose, only heightening the look of vulnerability she took such pains to hide. His chest constricted slightly, unrelated to the bruising of his ribs. At least she was able to sleep, he thought, in spite of the horrors she had been through.
It was more than he could manage, despite the feigned snores. Her revelations had him such a state that he didn’t know whether to shake her until her teeth rattled or cover that expressive mouth with another kiss until she cried out his name with the same passion as she had last night. A harried smile stole to his lips—for then again, hadn’t she been knocking his world akilter ever since that first morning when she opened her eyes and promptly planted him a facer. He nearly laughed aloud at the memory, then sobered considerably in the next moment.
It was no laughing matter. An unaccustomed heat crept over his face as he recalled his actions of last night. Good lord, he was truly no better than his brother. No doubt she had been exhausted. No doubt she had been in a state of shock. No doubt she had been, well, tipsy! He had taken advantage of her, no matter that she had not...sought to discourage his advances. The flush deepened as he thought about his hand roving inside her breeches. What ever had possessed him to lose himself so utterly to the heat of the moment? He had had his share of affairs and mistresses, but always within the boundaries of his own carefully constructed rules. Well, last night they had proved as effective as a sand fortress against the incoming tide. His vow to remain in strict control of his emotions had been swept away as easily as a speck on the strand. What he had experienced in the past was desire, physical need. What he had experienced last night was passion—and a need of some other sort.
It shook him to the very marrow.
His eyes pressed tightly closed. Here he had vowed to stay free of emotional entanglements and devote his energies to his estate and what had happened, weak fool that he was? She was not a raving beauty. Neither was she a pattern card for demure behavior or fragile femininity. She was, in short, all that a lady should not be.
The chit was vocal with her opinions, she rode astride, she used decidedly unladylike language, she didn’t swoon at the first hint of unpleasantness. And to make matters worse, she was long and willowy when he usually preferred tiny and rounded.
So what was it? The earl nearly gave a bark of ironic laughter, at the same time repressing an urge to tug his hair out by the roots. What was it? he repeated to himself. Very simple—she was vocal with her opinions, she rode astride, she used decidedly unladylike language, she didn’t swoon at the first hint of unpleasantness. And furthermore, she didn’t blink at his curses and only grinned at his irritable set downs.
She tolerated his fits of ill temper and had risked her own life to save his skin. Had he left anything out, he demanded as his teeth gritted together? Oh, and she never used tears to twist a man to her own desires.
She was brave. She was loyal. She had pluck to the bone, and a sense of humor. She—who the devil was she?
If he had felt rather queasy before, the thought of that question made him positively ill. He was not a total gudgeon. Highly sensitive dispatches, couriers to a private estate —it took little imagination to figure out her father was a very important man.
But why the devil wouldn’t she tell him who?
There were any number of possible explanations but one sprung foremost to mind. She wanted to walk away from him at the end of this hoping that what had passed between them would remain as unknown as her real identity. The import of her silence was as clear as any words she might have uttered. She wanted nothing to do with the Earl of Davenport, especially now that he had shown his true character, one not so very different from that of his infamous twin.
; No doubt that accounted for the fact that she could barely force herself to look at him since morning.
An opportunistic rake. And an ill-mannered, bearish one at that—at least Charles had had a modicum of charm to sweeten the bitter aftertaste of his actions. Is that how she thought of him? Was she frightened? Ashamed? Or merely willing herself to block out the feel of his bare chest, the touch of his fingers as she would the rest of her nightmarish experience? She was strong enough to forget and go with her life as if they had never met.
But was he?
Another question arose. He wondered whether she fully realized that her reputation was in his hands. She might be willing to put what had happened out of her mind, but one word from him, dropped discreetly among the ton, would ruin her forever, regardless of who her father was. Or would she consider the thousand pounds a payment for his silence as well? The growl that rumbled in his throat caused the two men seated on either side of him to edge away in apprehension.
And he thought he had problems when only confronted by merciless creditors, a bankrupt estate and a disgraced name.
* * * *
The gentleman crumpled the note and tossed it into the fire, allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction. His coachman had finally redeemed himself somewhat from the botch he had made of things.
So. She was nearly here. It was time to put his plan into action— one that would not fail.
A short while later a hackney pulled up in front of an elegant town house on Grosvenor Square. The occupant was dressed for the occasion in modest attire, as befitted his station. He carefully smoothed his hair and straightened his simply tied cravat before assuming an expression of grave concern and stepping forth from the vehicle. He rapped with a touch of urgency upon the heavy oak door. The butler answered almost immediately. His craggy features softened somewhat at the sight of a familiar face.
“Please come in, sir. I shall inform his lordship that you wish to speak to him.” The last was phrased as a question.
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